


Listening to Reason

by wolf_shadoe



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s07e22 Chosen, Reunions, Someone smack these two for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23440684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf_shadoe/pseuds/wolf_shadoe
Summary: A slayer and a vampire walk into a bar...An unexpected first meeting after Chosen. Oneshot. Necessarily angsty, but with a happy ending guarantee ;)
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 58





	Listening to Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Set during S5 of Angel, between Smile Time and A Hole In The World  
> Or in BtVS landmarks, 8 months post-Chosen.  
> Betaed by the most fantabulousist Micrindle23 💙

  
  


10pm  
  


_Because it's only one drink._ Because it's polite. Mature, sensible, what adults do when they bump into old friends they haven't seen for a while.   
(Old _friends_?)  
( _Shut up, brain-Buffy._ )   


Because she was only here for one night, this small town tucked away down the Californian coast, and tomorrow a plane would whisk her off to the back end of beyond, Venezuela or Mozambique or wherever it was… she couldn't remember right now but there was an itinerary in her email somewhere. Anyway, far from here, here where she shouldn't have come and wouldn't have but for an emergency callout and no one else suitably qualified on hand.

(Because this small town on the coast of California carried a hint of redwoods in its salty air, a sifting of desert sands and a ' _ Welcome to… _ ' sign, disturbingly unfamiliar familiarity all around, but the niggling-wriggling ache of loss in her chest had thud-dunked into sudden stillness at the sight of him? No. Of course not.)

Because she'd done the job she'd come here to do - and a patrol of the two local cemeteries besides - so she would only be cooling her heels pointlessly (frustratingly) for the next… ( _ten?_ _Yes, ten_ ) hours until she could check-in at the airport, and why not spend part of one of them having a drink and exchanging news with someone in a similar line of work? He might have a tip she needed to pass on to the council. Rumours of mothmen in Nigeria or something.   


So it was the right thing to be doing. And she could do it. Buffy lifted her chin a little higher and set her feet down firmly on the last few feet of pavement towards the bar.

*

(It'd started like this…)

Suggestion-slash-order-slash-request: take a car, run down the coast, run down the hidey-hole of a certain liswiction demon and exchange one fat Wolfram & Hart cheque for one sputum-enhanced jar of some mystical rot or other. And try not to  _ literally _ run down mister liswiction, please.   


It was lackey work, minion work, the sorta job a runner from the bottom floor would usually handle, but Angel had wanted Spike out of his over-gelled hair for the afternoon, night, ( _ nights, take your time and a credit card _ ), wolfgirl coming and all, and the task unimportant enough in the big picture that the risk of Spike screwing it up (intentionally or otherwise) must have been judged a worthy gambit for the peace.   
Himself needing out of Angel's brooding cloud and too-shiny offices and just plain  _ boringness _ so badly that he'd taken the cheque and manila folder with a shrug, and set out to play errand boy with nary a word of snark nor plan for sabotage.(Angel had looked more put out - and suspicious - at this easy acquiescence than the plonker did at his verbal jabs lately, giving him a momentary and half-hearted grin of malicious pleasure for achieving that much at least.)

Looked at the garage full of fast cars, luxury cars, gleaming techno-hoobaloo cars, and not an ounce of personality in a single damn one of them. So he'd taken the Hummer, because Fred had mentioned how hard it was to park next to; too tall and with all those sticky-out bits to catch your shins. (Okay, maybe he did have a smidgen of an urge to break something of Angel's.)

Demon found, exchange made, neat and tidy; the time barely evening and a feeling of utter repulsion to the idea of heading back to LA early, as much of an annoyance as that would have been to the aforementioned plonker. So he'd circled the main road of this middling town, eyed the human nightlife with grey and restless eyes, then rolled towards the nearest cemetery in search of action. Or a round of illicit poker.   


(Or a quiet stone bier to stretch out on under the stars. Taste the mingled scents and sounds of this too-reminiscent wee spot on the map. Dig up a scab and let himself pick at it. So, okay, maybe he coming over all melancholically Byronic. No one to sue him for it.)

And then… there she'd been.   


Fighting vampires, of course, and where  _ should  _ he finally meet her again if not between a row of headstones on a well-manicured lawn? (Nevermind the whole mirrorverse twisted familiarity of the wider location.) It was apt in an inescapable way, making the whole evening seem to tilt into logic better befitted to a dream; if this town had put him in mind of long-lost Sunnydale, why shouldn't The Lady herself be patrolling its cemeteries? He could probably find a facsimile of his long-gone crypt here if he hunted around long enough.   


Anyway.  _ Her _ .

(And the next part had been replaying in fractured repeat behind his eyes for the past - fifty-two now - minutes, and no more able to be ordered or rationalised down for it.)

A skipped beat, a missed step in her dance at the same moment that he froze in place at the sight-sound-awareness of her; she'd noticed him too, then. No matching pause from her two opponents, but her stumble turned smoothly into a reverse, a twist and duck, a double thrust of fierce little hands, then dust puffed out like smoke on either side of her, the firecracker bursts of a circus ring she'd mastered.

"Spike," she whispered, or breathed, or shaped her lips around silently, eyes burning into his and glittering too intensely - too mesmerizingly - for him to draw back and take in any of her expression.

(He'd have answered with her name, but the roaring in his ears drowned it. And who was he to affect such familiarity?) Could only stare back, immobilised entirely.

It was her who broke contact, gaze cutting to her pants and the task of brushing what must have been microscope specks of vamp dust from them, fingers oddly rushed and fidgety. He shook out his own coat with a restrained, near-invisible ripple of muscles across his shoulders; just movement enough to make tangible the weight and curtain of it across his skin.   


Motion faded away and eyes were still kept mutually offside, the grass which stretched between them chirping with the sound of crickets in cartoon-esque caricature.

"How've you been?" he asked, the note of extreme question in it more self-directed than attached to the words, because what the bleeding hell you were supposed to say in this situation was beyond any knowledge he possessed.   


"Good. You?" Her reply quick and blank, the sort of rote autoresponse long practised at checkouts and on phone calls to strangers.

_ Was she? _ A thick bandage peeking out of the collar of her shirt, starkly white against the living warmth of her skin. Hadn't seemed to affect her movement, mind. If anything she'd seemed faster, smoother, more lethal than ever. Though memory was named an unreliable mistress. The bared remainder of her collarbone standing sharp, a deep pool of shadow held behind it, as exposed and fragile-looking as ever it had been in the months of draining worry and skipped meals while they fought the First. Fragile as a razorblade, and more lethal.

"Yeah, good," he managed. Felt like someone had rung his bells, the suddenness of her appearance a concussive blow that was hard to force thoughts through. _ Get ahold of yourself… _ He tossed a hand wave towards the expanse of cemetery off to the east. "Was gonna do the tourist thing, stake some local talent, but I gather you've beaten me to it."

"Sorry," she said with an apologetic shrug of one shoulder.   


He mimicked the gesture;  _ not a problem.   
_

Silence stretched. Empty lawn stretched. The accursed crickets chirped.   


She would leave soon.   


(He'd made the state of things clear in that follow-up call to Andrew last month; Buffy was happy and moving on into life, ergo so was he. Flavoured the falsities with enough fact to make them taste true as he spun them down the line.  _ Had a lot of fun lately with Harm, did you know she works here? Really getting to know a certain redhead down in accounts, too. Great work environment in this place, vampirism being admired and catered for rather than looked down on suspiciously. How is Buffy, anyway?  _ Had the sense to hang up before the desperation could crack through to his voice.)

But it was one thing to admit defeat at a distance and through a proxy; another entirely to be standing this close as she walked away.

And she would.   


He didn't want her to; that knowledge suddenly physically painful in its intensity. Protective coat or no, a bandage had been ripped away from his torso to reveal a horrifyingly vast pit of yearning emptiness as the true inside of him. A touch of astonishment that such a thing could have been so smoothly hidden slid across the borders of his thoughts, while the bulk of them scrambled for some way to stop this yawning pit from tearing him apart when it inevitably collapsed in on itself.   


"Have you got time for a drink?" he somehow fumbled out, before tagging on a belated, "Maybe later on?"  _ Give her room, give her control, give her all the cards and hope like hell the social niceties will encourage her to play them out. _

"I guess," she said, sounding as uncertain and dubious as he felt. Fuck knew it was a terrible idea, only asking for trouble (pain), but christ, the alternative was unbearable right now. "What did you have in mind?" She was frowning as she finished speaking, sceptical wariness edging further onto her face.

"Noticed a late-night pub on the main street," he said, the image of it flashbulbing up in his brain like a last-chance shot of salvation. "Looked decent enough. And could be a good spot to cast an ear about for any nocturnal problems hereabouts."  _ That’s good, make it a work thing.  _ Why was she here at all? Supposed to be in Rome (and doing a certain Roman). That fact prickled his hackles up uncomfortably, and an element of challenge slid into his tone in response, "One drink, slayer. I promise not to bite."

A soft hint of colour kissed the points of her cheeks, and she ducked her face, covering with a nod.  _ Well, fancy that.  _ Could still embarrass her at least.   


"Okay," she said quickly, almost flustered. "Give me an hour?" Her hands swept over her pockets absently, unconsciously checking weapons, preparing to bolt.

"Yeah. Sure. Umm, see you then," he stammered.   


They fled in opposite directions, and her probably as likely to stand him up as he was her. 

  
  


He'd got back in the car and driven. Directionless, targetless; simple forwards motion to propel a vein of purposeful thought back into gear. Fingers drumming on the steering wheel as the main points coalesced. One hour. One drink. If she showed. If he did.  _ What was he going to wear? _   


Glanced down, took stock. Black t-shirt (obviously), black jeans (ditto), and both conveniently multipurpose because damn if he wasn't certain he'd need to eviscerate something bloodily to work off the tension by the time tonight's little soiree was done and dusted (and hopefully without  _ him _ done and dusted, god knew the chit was quick with the pointy things when her dander was up). So, black. Doesn't stain so easily. And the coat of course. Trademark, that was.   


If she was expecting anything else… tough shit. He knew he looked good. And it wasn’t like this meeting meant anything. Just polite, wasn't it? Mannerly. Just two people in the business of killing nasties, having a quick drink and exchanging pleasantries when they found themselves in the same dump for the night. Yeah. That was it. (Didn’t own anything else anyway; couple of spare shirts way back in LA, another pair of jeans.)   


Glanced at the glowing lights of the dashboard clock again; realised he'd better get a bloody move on if he wanted to beat her there. Which he did. If he was going.   


A street sign for the town centre loomed up in the headlights and he let the awkward behemoth of a vehicle be herded along by it, wiping his hands of the decision he'd already made.   


So now he was sitting in the back booth of the one pub in this place open late on a Wednesday, reminding himself that he had more than a century of experience at playing the cool, confident hunter and therefore absolutely did not need to be fiddling with the cuffs of his coat or checking the clock again.

And then she stepped in the door.   
  


*  
  


10.15  
  


'One drink' was all well and good in theory, but she was thirsty from walking or because the coffee on the flight in had been terrible or… something, and a glass of wine had vanished before she'd remembered to sip it daintily like the sensible adult she was and not the binge-drinking college student she'd never quite been. A second glass had pulled the same trick. But 'one drink' was a non-literal concept in any case surely, more of a measure of time, really, and, hey, slayer metabolism here, she was owed three or four to match the non-superpowered constitutions the phrase was based on.   
All the same… (The place had been more than half full when she'd opened the door; loud, bright, and heavily scented with spilt beer. It should have made a jarring contrast to the quiet night outside. Yet noise, light, and aroma had barely registered on the edge of her attention as her senses tunnelled down to focus solely on the portion of night in the last booth at the back. Again that mutual electric freeze of awareness, recognition; familiar pinpricks on the back of her neck seeming to muffle out all other senses.  _ Way _ too intense for a casual hello.) ...she needed her wits about her. Poise and control, with no hint of the emotional implosion that had detonated the last time she'd picked up a full bottle. So one more  _ drink _ drink, then she was switching to coke.

Spike's fingers toyed with a cheap plastic lighter, and with a mingle of angry justification and perhaps a touch of guilt she remembered the solid, cool weight of a silver zippo, in her hand for the last time before she'd sent it flying into the middle of a scungy lake. (Regret had swiftly followed that impulsive flash of rage, but she'd had no hope of finding anything in forty feet of brown and slimy water, try though she had.) Damn Andrew and his world-upending shocks. And thank god for him, and the opportunity to have steeled herself in advance for this exact scenario.   


The bar was nicer than she'd expected, with a sense of relaxed comfort to its vinyl booths and old dark oak tables. Here at the back the lighting was muted to a warm fuzziness, gleaming dully on the chipped and worn tabletop between them, softening the harshest edges of everything. She picked at a fleck of loose varnish beside her coaster, and tried not to wonder about the slight imprecision of coordination in Spike’s left fingers as he put down the lighter to do the same.   


He'd offered a vague explanation of what he was doing here; she hadn't pushed for details. Or, to be more accurate, she'd drawn away, questions bitter and burning trapped in her gullet;  _ Why are you working for him at all? Why didn't you- _

She’d offered her own explanations with as many interesting details as she could remember… which turned out to be none, and the flatness in her tone audible to her own ears. Come to a place, kill something, move on. It was what she did now. Very well.   


New subject time. She covered council, politics, baby slayer numbers, all in a jumpy, rough-sketch fashion; sullenly veered away from any mention of known individuals. If he cared to know he could damn well ask. Like he hadn't all year. How much had Andrew blabbed out last month?  _ Do you know how Dawn’s doing? Do you care? She mourned you, asshole.  _ All these unsaid things were piling up invisibly around her feet, giving her twinges of warning to make sure she left this place before they could climb high enough to suffocate her.

Spike hadn't mentioned  _ the redhead,  _ and she didn’t have a name to ask after. Bitch, whoever she was. That could be her name from now on. Nasty, conniving Bitch who obviously wasn't right for him if she wasn't here to keep him company in unknown graveyards.  _ At least I watched your back. When you weren't guarding it from me, anyway.  _ Which he'd never done well enough.  _ Why were you so full of love for me when I carved up that back with my claws, and only ran out when I let myself say it back?  _ Too little, too late, and always would be. She'd finally come to terms with it lately; there were no beds of roses in her future. Her flowers were bruises and blood splatters, and she'd perfected her icy glare to keep away the thorns. Happily ever afters were for people who could reasonably expect to have an after, not for the ones trying to make sure everyone else got one.   


Wrong line of thought. That way lieth badness. She drained the end of her glass again, and asked if he'd heard of any trouble spots nearby.   


Why couldn't they have bumped into each other on a battlefield? 

*

It was killing him, by degrees and very gradually, each breath laced with her scent and each refraction of light from the shifting gold of her hair. Twice-dead masochist that he was, he welcomed the burn of each needle under his skin and gloried in the warmth of it. Sheer stupidity. Oh well.   


She hadn't asked after Angel. Because she already knew, him holding clandestine phone calls with her when his team wasn't looking? Doubted it, somehow. Wanker forgot about her as soon as she was out of sight, and would never have kept quiet about any contact if he could have rubbed it in Spike’s face. She  _ definitely _ wouldn't know about wolfgirl. Could throw it out there idly right now, knock some of the polish off that Angel-shaped statue in her mind. Imagined it. Imagined the flash of surprise… and then the withdrawal into hurt and self-doubt which would inevitably follow. Grimacing slightly at himself, he shoved a ciggy between his lips to forestall any hasty words. Wound too tightly, the both of them. This couldn't end well, civil and safe though they'd been so far.

"Do you enjoy working there?" she asked, her voice almost hesitant and so layered with possible subtexts that it was impossible to guess what she wanted to hear. Maybe she didn't know either.   


"It's alright," he answered with careful neutrality, picking up his lighter and flicking it to his smoke to stall further. Let her hang. Make her probe.  _ She _ could have rung  _ him _ when she found out he was back if she cared so much. God, he was such an arsehole.   


_ Think of something.  _ "Employee benefits aren't bad," he said finally, unable to remember why it was again that he was still hanging around that place at all.

"Is that what you are? An employee of the mighty Wolf, Ram and Hart?" Her attention had sharpened, for all that her voice sounded indifferent, the air tensioning subtly.   


She was  _ suspicious  _ of him, he suddenly clicked; suspicious of the shade of his hat and lay of his loyalties most likely. After all, Andrew had claimed that Angel was now firmly on the 'Do Not Trust' list, entrenched and possibly brainwashed by the Evil Lawyers Incorporated. Bitter resentment at the unspoken accusation boiled up instantly like a small stormcloud inside him. If she thought he was the bloody type to sell out like that- He narrowed his gaze on her half-turned face indignantly, ready to snap out exactly what he thought and to hell with these false niceties. -Then he caught it. A wideness to her eyes that she couldn't cover, the way her shoulder angled protectively towards him. Not suspicious (or not only).  _ Concerned.   
_

_ Oh _ .   


And if she didn't understand what he was doing in that place, whose fault was that? He forced himself to relax back a little, trying to project more openness in body language. "No," he told her ruefully. "Just an overstaying moocher. Not stupid enough to sign anything with those bastards." He quirked a lopsided little frown. "And occasional errand boy, when it seems there could be some fun and mayhem to be had. Figure I'm fighting the system by working my way through their petty cash and vehicle supply." Or, he had. But there was an unmarked glossy black monstrosity outside which said otherwise tonight, and when was it he had slipped so far into apathy over the whole 'annoying the evil law firm' thing? Nevermind. Worry about that later.   


Buffy studied his face for a moment, then dropped her gaze to her glass, confusion and worry writ clear now that he was looking properly. She cupped the contoured tumbler in both hands, shrinking herself in around it slightly as she tilted it this way and that to watch the last inch of liquid swirl. The rumbly babble of disparate conversations from the rest of the bar rolled around like background music, and suddenly they each seemed very much alone here, as far apart from each other and the rest of the patrons as they were from Willy’s place. More, he could extend the image before him, see her tucked in small around herself like this in a different bar last week, in a slayer meeting, at a scooby gathering (if they still had those). This tiny splash of living gold they all orbited, holding her griefs and pains and fears behind a mask of calm leadership. She'd always done it far too well.   


He hurt. Couldn't deny it to himself now, all his defensive agitation draining out like a sinkful of dirty water, leaving a basin of jumbled cutlery on display. Forks and knives of the things he was smothering almost as well as she did. Guilt, that was that big barbecue fork in the middle. Knew the shape of it well enough.   


Sensing his attention, or the new depth of the silence, she flicked a quick glance up and back before moving her lips into the ghost of a smile. Yeah. He had no way of righting any of this either. There wasn't one. Stupid to have come.   


Had to try though. Try to give her something to close this door softly on, something to dull the ache he'd stirred up. "No," he said softly, speaking down at her hands. "Don't enjoy working there. Bloody miserable place really. Just been sticking it out while I work out what's next." He looked up at her. "I'm moving on next week." It became true as he said the words, certainty in them that he'd been treading water in that toxic place long enough, too long, and needed to get out while he still could.

"Why-" she began asking, then shook her head to abandon the question. She dropped her face and drank half of the well-swirled rum and coke left in her glass, while he waited, frozen in icy, trembling anticipation of the blow which intuition said was about to come. She started again in a voice that wobbled and shrank as she went on, "Why didn't you tell me, Spike?"

And there it was. Too late to run. And wasn't this what he'd asked her here for? That barbecue fork leapt up and sunk into his chest.  _ Fair _ . A vengeful stake from her would have been too gentle. The rest piled on swiftly behind it; shame, self-betrayal, hopelessness, the shaky and uncomfortable feeling of giving up the self-delusion and admitting that there was no one to blame but himself and a gigantic fucking wrong to attribute blame for. Pillars of his very being stood self-sabotaged and fractured all around him, those tenets he'd sworn by that said he'd never hurt her. He had. And he'd known he was all the while. Wilful ignorance didn't make a thing less true. He dropped his face into his hands, inhaling a slow, deep breath, succumbing to the gravity which seemed to have increased in a two-foot circle directly under his seat.  _ Why. How. _   


Buffy put her glass down with an unsteady little clink and waited silently. He couldn't face her. Didn’t have an answer for her. Could maybe tunnel through the floor here and slither away like a serpent, leave a note on his seat saying,  _ sorry. _ She deserved a hell of a lot more from him than that. One more steadying breath, then he slid his hands back through his hair and looked up.   


Buffy’s eyes shimmered, emerald and gold glitter lost in sea and shadows. He'd once lost himself in them; now she blinked and closed him away, everything about her tightly controlled, as though any movement would bring excruciating pain. Any language he'd ever possessed deserted him, and slow beats of silence counted out like dying heartbeats.

In a voice of salt-wet steel, Buffy whispered, "Two hundred and forty-nine days, Spike." One corner of her lip lifted into a pained sneer. "How long was it where you were?"

The hint of recovering anger helped, even as it shoved his self-made weapons in a little deeper. He could take it.  _ Talk _ . He sighed, dropped his gaze to the table again and spoke in a hushed murmur, "Five months. And none. Didn’t count. One moment I'm in the hellmouth, the next Angel's office and somehow it's October." He rotated his empty glass slowly with one hand, the drip of amber in the bottom of it seeming to represent a million possible future universes branching off from the next few moments. "Big dose of searing agony, blind panic, then I'm sticking out of Angel's desk, panic only growing, and I can't feel my body. Andrew tell you about the whole ghost issue?" She nodded once, listening, giving nothing away. He nodded back. "Asked Angel, if you- if you'd made it out. Where you were. First thing I thought of."  _ Needed to see you. Talk to you. See that you really were okay. _ Christ, when had that unwavering knowledge of what was important failed him? "Angel tells me you're in Europe. Doing fine. I try to work out where the bleeding hell I am."   


End part one. And him no closer to explaining why he hadn't so much as left her a message during the next hundred-odd days. There was a tidy out being hurried together in his mind, a short spiel about how he'd thought it best to leave things as they'd been and not go bothering her. Excuses and lies, burying the truth of that perfect -  _ effulgent _ \- last moment together. But maybe that was what she wanted now. What would help her put it to rest.

He tilted his empty glass towards her almost-empty one. "Do you want another?"  _ Ball's in your court, Slayer.  _ (Had he called memory an unreliable mistress? No, she was a gut-stabbing bitch.)

Buffy bit the inside of her lip, considering carefully, and everything in him did an abrupt about-face into praying that she would stay, listen; probe and poke at his wounded corpse until she had examined every detail she desired to. Kick over the ashes until she found some satisfaction in them. "Okay," she said, then swallowed the last sip and handed over her glass.   


"Okay," he echoed, and air flooded gratefully back into the room.

*

"Was a ghost. Didn’t know if it would last. Or if I would. Couldn't bloody leave in any case." _   
_

His tale skimmed the surface for the most part, rehashing the story she'd heard in brief from Andrew. Then quieter words would emerge, things he hadn't shared so openly and was probably only touching back to now because she had asked.   


She'd steeled herself to hear that he'd decided enough was enough. That he'd welcomed the forced break from her demanding life. That he had taken the coward's route and hidden from her rather than have to tell her that whatever they'd had was done.   


That wasn't what she was hearing.   


She could picture him now, standing in a strange office, frightened, confused, lost. Being told she was fine and dandy across the pond and life had moved on without him. Surrendering - albeit in a recalcitrant fashion - to Angel's authority, because he was family and a familiar enemy when nothing else made sense.

"I would have come for you," she said, cautiously moderating her voice to something far more gentle and restrained than she felt.  _ I would have led an army in smashing through their glassy foyers to take you away from that place. If you'd given me the chance.  _ That was what stung; that he'd denied her the opportunity to help. That he'd not wanted to accept it from her, or thought she'd refuse to offer it, would have hurt. The truth becoming clearer though was that he'd not felt worthy to ask. That he'd looked at the likelihood of him being stuck all ghostly until he maybe faded away, and chosen not to risk putting her through that. It hurt more.

"I know," he said quietly.   


_ How did you cope, Spike? You, who lives for touch and taste and feeling.  _ The bucket of anger she'd held under gritted teeth all evening, the scorned rath of her unspoken,  _ why didn't you pick up a goddamn phone? _ evaporated away, leaving her bereft of a necessary handhold. "I'm sorry," she said, and this time the softness of her words was heartfelt. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. And that I couldn't be there for you."

Spike shook his head quickly, averting his eyes. The, _it's done now,_ _don't go there,_ was clear. "Then Fred had this clever idea to recorporealise me," he continued.   


_ Fred. _ Unfair and uncharitable perhaps, but the lashing-tailed green-eyed monster inside of her spat fury all the same. Fred sounded… sweet. And it was good he'd found a friend in that place. But she couldn’t bring herself to say so.   


Only now Spike’s face was desperately imploring her to accept what he was telling her, that he'd traded his shot at corporeality for saving Fred. And what kind of jealous harpy was she if he was that worried that she would take saving someone's life as him choosing them over her? "Fred's lucky there was a champion around to save the day," she said with a smile, because she hadn't forgotten, wouldn’t forget, whatever else was swirling and crashing in the emotional turmoil soup which was Buffy.   


He huffed a breath of a self-deprecating laugh, and carried on with the story. Until, three months ago,  _ Corporeality by mail. Source unknown _ . Then his words dried up. She watched him tap another smoke out of the packet and set it between his lips; took a small sip of her drink and watched a group of people gathering their things to leave. The night was deepening, and this place would close eventually.   


"I was going to come to you then," he said quietly, eyes on the same group of strangers. "Had to wait, had this whole problem with some bleeding prophecy to sort out first - literally bleeding, pouring out of people's eyes, rather artistically gruesome, actually - bit of a dust-up with Angel to resolve it. Gave me the pause to look at myself. At where things were. Decided-" He sighed. "Figured you were best left be. Could hardly go out in a blaze of glory like that and then come swaggering back in a few months later like nothing'd changed."

She waited, but he'd clammed up, smoking silently and watching the distant wall. "So you thought what, I wouldn't want to know? Wouldn't care?" she asked in a low voice. Anger was building swiftly again, easy to grab onto, all the pain of the past few months gathered in and honed at this single target, because  _ that _ was his damn reason? And obviously, "You didn't believe me," she said as she thought it. Why should he have.

He cringed a little at her tone, then swallowed and looked over at her. "Didn’t matter if I had." 

She snatched in a breath to shout something unplanned and which she knew she'd probably regret, but he saw it coming and beat her to the punch. 

" _ I'd  _ changed!" he snapped, urgency adding volume to his voice and probably earning them a few looks.   


When he saw she'd bitten off her words he went on more quietly. "I'd changed, Buffy. Person you said that to, that's not who I am now. So it doesn't matter anymore." There was a tight-jawed fierceness to the last line, as though it were something he'd been stubbornly repeating to himself. He shook his head, a dark and humourless smile flickering across his face. "I'm a bloody mess, luv. Train wreck with fangs, and you don't need to deal with that. Got enough on your plate. I didn't want to- didn't want to use you like that."

_ Like I did _ . She felt her cheeks flush as shame eclipsed anger in her planetary collision of emotions, and wondered anew at his ability to send lances flying through the carefully constructed defences of a lifetime and convert all of her innards to chaos. She  _ really  _ needed to hit something, destroy something, lose herself in motion and violent impact.

"That’s not what I-" he growled, before gritting his teeth in frustration. "I'm a grown vampire, Buffy. Can sort my shit out on my own, okay? Need to. Anyway. Was gonna call. Was about to call, every day. At first." He dropped his eyes again, voice falling with them to something ashamed and apologetic.   


God, they were both such a mess and only dragging it to the surface in each other further, radiating violent emotions over things that were done and gone and could never now be changed. She swallowed down the maelstrom and tried to give him an encouraging look,  _ go on, the only way out of this is the end. _

"Couldn't work out what to say. How to explain… Alright, was a coward about it. Day went by, week, told myself I was working out exactly what to say. Few weeks, then it was too late. What was I gonna do then, give you a ring-" he feigned holding a phone to his ear- "Yeah hi, Buffy, just decided I'd let you know I'm not dead - I'm undead again - whatever - Since when? Oh, quite a few months ago now. Been ignoring you to hang out with Angel in LA." He dropped the imaginary phone and swept his hand over his face before looking back at her glumly. "I was a fucking idiot, okay?"

"You could have just started with  _ hello _ ," she whispered.   


Spike grinned, dry and bitter with irony, then chuckled tiredly under his breath, closing his eyes. "Yeah. I know."   


She found herself smiling back, an echo of his laugh coming with it. It wasn’t funny, all of it was so far from funny, but something had levelled between them at last and the relief made her almost lightheaded. Or maybe that was the alcohol kicking in.

Spike's smile faded slowly, then he sighed again and met her eyes. "I'm sorry, Buffy. Truly. Know I was an utter tosspot."

She dipped her head in quiet acknowledgement, then picked up her glass and let the mood settle further. She could do this, she reminded herself. He'd given her an answer to the question that had been tearing her apart all month. For the moment, he was here with her, and that was enough, and she wouldn't think beyond it. "It's good to see you," she said a minute later. Safe to let herself feel a hint of it now.   


"You too." His eyes were steadier now, and gentle in a way that would have been too intimate anywhere else. Here in the dimmed back corner things felt softened, and she relaxed into watching him in turn.   


If she could - they could - tiptoe through some easier topics then maybe this night wouldn't have to be all rollercoaster-ery and pain. Maybe they really could get along now.   


"There's no redhead in accounts," he said, grimacing. "Was just spinning shit to Andrew so he wouldn't come up with some fantasy where I was saving myself for you."

"Oh," she said, mentally deleting the soft-handed, lusciously curved and strikingly gorgeous Bitch from her mindscape.   


"Think it's best I spend some time on my own. Never really done that, you know? Always chasing after one bint or another. So figure I should do that hippy-dippy bollocks and get to 'know myself' before I think about hooking up with anyone."

Buffy nodded to delay answering.  _ Do you mean that? Are you lonely, Spike? You were never made to be alone.  _ There was a maturity to the way he'd said it though, that same sense of calmer self-possession that had been building in him since Africa. He'd outgrown her, and his crazed infatuation with her. The knowledge was astringently bittersweet. "I'm not really dating The Immortal," she said, to fill in the space, smiling at the insanity of the idea as she did. "If you'd heard that rumour."

"Oh thank fuck," he said quickly, looking far more relieved than she'd expected. "Guy's an arse."

"You know him?" she asked, surprised.   


His lips pulled back in sneering contempt. "Might have had a run-in with him over the years."

"Is he- It was this whole scheme of Andrews; he set up 'Buffy imposters' in a few key cities, blonde slayers who know their stuff. He figured they'd keep the local demons in line for fear of The Mighty Buffy Summers coming down on them, and redirect any attention that might be coming my way. I found out last week and put a stop to it, but rumours die slowly." She'd been furious.

"Redirected attention?" he asked, concern and sympathetic understanding in the lift of his eyebrows.   


_ There, see, why couldn't Andrew and Vi get it so easily?  _ "Yep. Anything that wants to come gunning for me can damn well meet  _ me _ , not some party-happy teenager with a few months experience. Nothing had happened to any of them yet, luckily. Anyway, Paige - Rome-Buffy - is dating him. Or doing something with him. Should I worry?"

Spike shook his head grudgingly, wrinkling up his nose in distaste. "No," he said with a tone of reluctant concession. "He's an arse who looks after his women. She'll be the safest slayer out there. And floating on bloody cloud nine, long as she's not expecting anything monogamous."

There was a story there alright, but she could sketch the gist of it from Spike's face. She reverted the subject, shrugging. "Dating and my life do not mesh right now. Dawn’s at uni - early entrance - and the new council doesn't need me babysitting, so I've been travelling a lot. Seeing new places." Not avoiding her friends and family. Not trying to run from the shadows that crept up in her mind whenever she paused for too long. Certainly not running risks for the simple mindless purity of an adrenaline rush. Maybe he had the right idea though. Maybe it was time to slow down, look at the world around her and try to face herself squarely. Now that the biggest shadow was gone.

"Good for you," he said, smiling with genuine warmth.   


He'd always wanted her to have that. Bickered with her over her realistic (he'd said pessimistic) acceptance that her place was in Sunnydale and she would spend her life stuck in it. She was here and Sunnydale was gone, so perhaps she was a pessimist. And he was the stubbornly-determined-to-be-right bastard who had spurred her away from the crumbling ruin of it. Starting tomorrow, she was going to start making more of an effort to appreciate that.

"We would never have worked out, in any case," Spike said smoothly. "You and I, pet, were a fish and a daffodil, thrown together by cosmic accident."

"A…  _ fish  _ and a  _ daffodil _ ?" she asked, sceptical and somewhat thrown.

He rolled his eyes. "Hardly think you're the person to argue the fit of anyone's metaphor, slayer. Rain and lava, then. Steamy, but ultimately doomed."

Could she do this? Talk like… old friends. Like people who'd fought to a standstill, then shaken hands and clinked glasses, old passions and hurts dulled by time. She was tired of fighting, suddenly; tired of wariness and defensive postures, tired of fake smiles and self-restraint. His presence had been soaking into her slowly from the moment she stepped in the door, and she ached to let go of the rest and just enjoy this for what it was. Screw everything beyond these moments. "Yeah," she said, "you leave wet towels on the floor."

"I do not," he protested, scowling at her, though his eyes sparkled. "And at least I don't get makeup all over them."

"No, just ash and blood smears," she said haughtily.   


He chuckled, a rich, syrupy sound that warmed her from the inside. "You do that too."

"Not - on - purpose," she told him triumphantly. 

*  
  


The conversation fell into a familiar rhythm as she tried to outdo him on '101 reasons we shouldn't be together', bantering fond insults and dark humour back and forth.   


Because she had terrible taste in music. Because he did. Because she ate toast without plates and waved crumbs all over every surface. Because he didn't wash his disgusting blood mugs out straight away, and left them all over the place like tiny surprise crime scenes.   


Because he might get bored and/or hungry one day, and finally get around to bagging that third slayer. Because she was prone to poking bits of wood into things that pissed her off, and he was the expert at that particular accomplishment.   


"Because you should have ten children and a dog and a white picket fence. Whether you want them or not," he offered. "And the fanciest vacuum cleaner of all the women in your sewing circle. No, let me go again. I think I stole that one from Angel," he added with a laugh.   


Her reaction was immediate, and intense enough to send an instinctive shout of _danger!_ bolting through him. "Don't talk to me about Angel," she hissed, a fury flaring in her eyes that looked fierce enough to set the table ablaze.   


_ Christ.  _ Could almost feel sorry for the shock the poor bugger was going to get if he bumped into her anytime soon. Wonder what had sparked that off, exactly. He raised his hands in conciliation, then took a risk and continued with, "Fanciest  _ washing line _ , so you can hang ten children's nappies out in the sunlight."

"Eleven children," she amended, "enough for a football team. Two dogs." A blink or two and the vengeful fire in her eyes had been neatly tucked away again, smouldering somewhere for later use. His tongue slid across his teeth, nerves still tingling, energised and excited by the flash of threat.   


"Because you should live in a house made of rocks, with no dangerous stakes lying around, and walls strong enough to bash heads into every day for fun," she said.   


"Because you shouldn't have to worry about head-sized holes in the hallway walls."

Because he had that whole sunlight allergy thing.

Because they were mortal enemies. ( _ Cliché since Shakespeare _ , she said primly,  _ try again _ .)

Because she wasn't getting any younger and he wasn't getting any older.   


Because she might not either.   


Because they had hurt each other like no one else on earth.   


Neither of them said,  _ because we missed our every shot. _

And then the music turned off.

The few remaining punters started draining their glasses, and Buffy picked up her still-full one slowly. Closing time. Where the hell had an hour gone? She took a sip of her drink, and he did what he'd hardly dared to all evening, drinking in the full sight of her, the smooth curve of her throat and the way her nose twitched at the bubbles. Then she put it down for a final time, and got to her feet.   


He stood up, put his empty glass down, then knocked back the rest of hers, giving her a shrug and grin to say  _ not wasting good piss. _ Then he waited for her to lead the way out the door.   
  


*  
  


Her rented room was a block away; his car was across the street. They stood on the footpath outside the bar, beyond the bright yellow glow of the nearest street lamp, and watched in silence as the barman flipped the door sign over and dimmed the lights.   


"Walk you there?" Spike offered, studying the nearest window sign.

"Yes," she said quickly, because deferring everything was the lifeline she needed in the tumultuous bowl of emotion soup she'd been submerged back into as soon as they'd stepped outside.   


They walked slowly, dawdled, dragged their feet via what felt like mutual accord. Her brain stubbornly refused to produce anything resembling words to send to her mouth, and Spike was either mirroring her silence or having the same problem. Eventually, inevitably, they still got there.

She stopped on the footpath a few feet before the street-level door, and felt the shape of her key through the denim of her jeans. Spike had halted two yards further back again, head tilted as if he was reading the sign above the front windows. She waited, and willed time to pause here until she could catch up.   


Spike sighed slowly, shoved his hands in his pockets, and turned to face her. "Guess this is it," he said quietly, eyes hovering somewhere around her waist before edging up to meet hers.

Her heartbeat was palpable in her ears, the only thing left in her head after his voice.  _ Thump, thump.   
_

"I've, umm, got a cellphone," he said in a rough, halting voice. "If maybe you want the number-"

"Don't go," she whispered, the thudding tribal drumbeat in her head suddenly voiceable.

Spike froze, then closed his eyes, the muscles in his cheeks flickering with pain. "We talked this one out, luv," he told the ground, very quietly. "A hundred and one reasons I have to, remember?"   


"Because I love you," she said.

His eyes leapt to hers, wide and afraid, tight with tension around the edges.   


"It doesn't have to mean anything," she murmured, fighting to keep her voice steady and not look down at her toes. "If- if you need to leave. I'll understand." Spike shook his head, a reflexive little movement of anxious and hasty negation. "But I need you to know." She took a breath, and again the words flowed as easily as if she'd said them a thousand times, "I love you, Spike."

He didn’t move. But he didn't leave, either.  _ Thump, thump. _   


"Is that enough?" he asked, longing and fear and a sort of despairing hope on his face.   


"It's all I have," she said, voice wobbling. It was everything, everything she carried guarded so carefully inside her deepest defences, now taken out and dangling precariously stretched across the six feet of open air between them. She held her breath, empty-handed and powerless to stop it shattering. _ Thump, thump.   
_

He took a hesitant little step closer, and she could breathe again. "I did mention that I'm a hopeless mess, didn’t I?" he said cautiously.   


"You did," she whispered. "Also, kinda noticed."

The tiniest hint of a smile crossed his face, then vanished into a pained wince. "I slept with Harmony," he said.

"Okay," she said simply, because it was irrelevant, everything was irrelevant except the fact that he was standing in front of her,  _ Spike  _ was standing in front of her, close enough for her to smell the leather of his coat and the elusive moonlight-scent of his skin, and real and right there and she was either going to faint or be sick.

She did neither. He took another step closer, and she lifted her arms, feeling naked and raw and all made of hollow glass. Then he was moving into them, solid and tangible and filling all of the empty space that had hounded her unceasingly across the globe. Her eyes overflowed, gushing hot salt down her cheeks and into his shoulder, but it didn't matter because she could feel him trembling all around her and his cool breath all shaky and catching where he'd buried his face in her hair.   


He mumbled her name, then crushed her tighter against him, clinging to her like it was the only way to keep from drowning. She squeezed back hard, harder, needing to, and knowing he needed her to just as much. Then something shattered, some part of those defences she'd just robbed blind, and apparently they were a dam, because the world spun dizzyingly and she started sobbing harder than she could ever remember doing. Relief and grief and a million intricacies of emotion flash-flooded like a force of nature, and she clung to him and let it all tear freely, because he wasn't letting go.   
  
  


When the torrent began to ease they were on the ground, him sitting on the pavement with her a snotty, puffy-eyed limpet glued to his chest. She dragged in a steadying breath, ribs all achy from crying.   


"God, I'm so sorry, luv," he murmured again, voice all sniffly, one hand stroking the side of her head.   


"No," she whispered, then patted his chest with the hand that was there and tilted her head back to see his face. "No, see, it's alright now." Her voice was all small and husky, but no matter. "We'll be okay, Spike," she told him, smiling, and patted him again. "Everything's okay now."

"You're mad, you are," he said, but he'd caught her smile and it danced in his eyes. "I've gone and broken you, sent you completely off your trolley." She only grinned wider, snuggled in more comfortably. Spike bent to kiss the top of her head. "You're right, luv," he said gently. "Everything's alright now." He leaned back until his shoulders rested against the wall of the boarding house, and resettled his arms around her.    
  
  


A car cruised past, and Spike tucked his coat further around her as the headlights swept over them. They probably needed to move, before a cop came along to accuse them of being drunk and disorderly all over the pavement.   


Buffy pried herself off his chest far enough to sit up, fighting the steel of his arms all the way. Reluctance and fear flitted across his face.   


"What happens now?" he whispered.   


"We get out of here."

He relaxed slightly. "To?"

"It doesn't matter."

There was turmoil in the night sky of his eyes, stirring restlessly with her flippancy. "Buffy," he said soberly. "What happens tomorrow?"

She brought her hand up to cup his cheek, felt him ease into her touch like a nuzzling great cat. "It doesn't matter," she said carefully, "because we don't ever let each other go. Okay?"

He let out the breath he'd been holding, closing his eyes and sinking further into her palm. "Okay. Okay, luv. I can do that."

"Good," she said, and leaned in to kiss him softly under his eye.

Then she took his hand, and pulled them both to their feet. 


End file.
